Chapter 7 Amara
Amara
The weekend passes in a blur of Manhattan caseloads and black coffee.
I wake up Monday morning feeling like someone replaced my brain with concrete and my throat with sandpaper.
Oh God.
I forcefully drag myself upright and immediately regret it. My head pounds like there’s a tiny judge inside calling for order with a gavel. My skin feels too hot and too cold at the same time, which shouldn’t be physically possible but hey, here we are.
You worked all weekend reviewing Manhattan contracts.
What did you think would happen?
Corin told me to take the weekend off. I ignored him because I’m a professional adult who doesn’t need a billionaire telling me when to rest.
Turns out the billionaire might have had a point.
I stumble to the bathroom and splash water on my face. My reflection looks like a deposition gone horribly wrong. My pale skin looks even more washed out than usual, while the dark circles under my eyes could qualify as their own legal brief. And don’t even get me started on my hair.
“You look great,” I tell my reflection sarcastically. “Very ‘competent attorney,’ not at all ‘extra from zombie movie.’ Oh no.”
I should go back to bed. Any reasonable person would call in sick.
But I’m not reasonable.
I’m Amara Khan, fixer extraordinaire, the woman who once worked through food poisoning during a critical merger negotiation.
I can handle a little tropical flu or whatever this is.
Famous last words.
I dress in a loose linen dress because anything fitted sounds like actual torture right now. I apply sunscreen, then bug spray. The usual necessities against Eleuthera’s elements. Except today the smell of both makes my stomach turn.
At least the new rental the car company sent starts the first time. That’s gotta count for something, right?
The drive to the clinic is a blur of too-bright sunshine and roads that seem deliberately designed to maximize nausea. We’re talking these steep, sea-side cliffs where any wrong turn would send my car over the edge and sinking upside down into the ocean.
When I finally pull into the clinic parking area, I spot Corin’s SUV already there. Early as usual.
There’s someone leaning against the building in the shade.
Probably one of his security guys. I’ve started noticing them more.
Shadows that move when Corin moves, always positioned near exits, always watching.
It should be creepy but instead it’s just sort of fascinating in a “wow, rich people live differently” kind of way.
I grab my canvas tote and legal pad, then immediately regret the sudden movement as that angry judicial officer inside my head starts pounding her gavel again.
You can do this.
Just get through today.
Tomorrow you’ll feel better.
Outside, the warm weather is bearable. However, when I step inside, I immediately feel like turning back, because the clinic’s concrete walls trap heat like a legal argument traps opposing counsel.
My vision does this fun sparkly thing that definitely isn’t concerning at all.
Marisol looks up from her desk. “Morning, Amara! You’re right on time for the Martinez follow-up. Corin’s in the back office setting up.”
Joy.
“Great,” I manage.
God, my voice sounds like I’ve been gargling gravel.
She frowns. “You okay? You sound a little rough.”
“Just allergies,” I lie smoothly, because I’ve spent five years in corporate law where lying is basically a professional skill. “The Bahamas air, you know.”
Marisol doesn’t look convinced but she nods. “There’s tea in the kitchenette if you need it.”
I make my way to the back office, each step feeling like I’m wading through quick sand.
The door is open.
Corin’s sitting at the desk, reviewing something on his laptop. He’s wearing his usual sand-colored linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. As usual, my eyes linger on those hot, corded forearms.
Focus, Amara.
Not the time for forearm appreciation.
Counterpoint: you might be dying, so maybe this is exactly the time for forearm appreciation.
He glances up when I enter. Those dark eyes do a quick scan of my face and I watch his expression shift from neutral to concerned almost instantly.
“You’re sick,” he says.
It’s not a question.
“I’m fine,” I argue, setting my tote on the desk with more force than necessary.
Bad idea.
The room tilts.
He’s standing and at my side in three strides, with one hand gripping my elbow to steady me.
The contact sends a shock through my system that has nothing to do with fever.
“You’re not fine.” His voice is low and firm. “You’re burning up.”
I frown, and say, a little breathlessly: “How can you possibly know that?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Your face is flushed, your forehead is beaded in sweat, and you’re swaying, Amara. Fucking swaying. You can barely hold your head up. I don’t need a medical degree to diagnose a fever.”
Okay so he’s observant. That’s annoying.
And maybe a little attractive.
“We have the Martinez workshop at two,” I protest weakly. “I can’t just leave.”
“I’ll handle it.”
I refuse to budge. “You can’t handle it alone. They’re expecting both of us.”
“Marisol can step in.” His hand is still on my elbow. “You need to go back to your villa and rest.”
I want to argue more but honestly I’m too tired.
He pulls out his phone and texts someone. “Keon’s bringing the SUV around. He’ll drive you back to the resort.”
I raise my chin defiantly, which makes the room tilt. “I bought my rental car.”
“Which you’re not driving in this condition.” He guides me toward the door with the kind of gentle authority that’s really unfair given my current state. “Come on.”
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, but I let him lead me outside because standing upright is taking all of my available energy.
The SUV pulls up. The driver, Keon, gets out and opens the back door without comment.
Corin helps me into the backseat. “Take her to her villa. Make sure she gets inside safely.”
Keon nods. “Yes sir.”
I slump against the leather seat as Keon pulls away. Through the window I watch Corin standing in the parking area, hands in his pockets, watching the SUV until we turn onto Queen’s Highway.
Just protecting his investment, of course.
Can’t have his hundred-thousand-dollar consultant dying of tropical fever.
Or maybe he actually cares?
Ha!
Don’t be stupid.
Back at my villa, Keon walks me to the door, waits while I fumble with my key, then nods once and leaves.
I collapse onto the bed still wearing my clothes because undressing requires motor skills I currently don’t possess.
The ceiling fan spins lazily above me. I watch it and try to remember when I last felt this awful.
Has to be law school finals week.
I had the flu and still took three exams.
Yeah and barely passed two of them.
Great precedent.
I close my eyes and drift in and out of consciousness.
The room is too hot, then too cold, then too hot again.
At some point there’s a knock on the door.
I ignore it.
Another knock. More insistent.
“Go away,” I call out, which comes out as more of a croak.
“Amara. Open the door.” Corin’s voice.
What is he doing here?
Doesn’t he have a workshop to run?
I drag myself upright, which takes a good minute, and then shuffle to the door. When I open it, Corin’s standing there holding a bag that smells like... ginger?
“You’re supposed to be at the clinic,” I tell him.
“Marisol’s handling the workshop.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, which should annoy me but honestly I’m too tired to care. “When did you last eat?”
I think about this. “Yesterday? Maybe?”
His jaw tightens. “Sit down.”
I sit on the edge of the bed because standing is overrated anyway.
He moves into the kitchenette area and unpacks the bag. There’s a thermos of tea, containers of soup, and what look like fever reducers.
“Ysela sent supplies,” he explains.
That would be his Bahamas House Manager, who he’s mentioned a few times now.
I’ve never met her.
And I doubt she knows I even exist.
Still, it’s a sweet lie, so I decide not to call him on it.
He pours tea into a mug and brings it to me. “Drink this. It’s ginger. Good for nausea.”
I take the mug and wrap my hands around it. I take a sip and yep, definitely tastes like ginger.
“It’s terrible,” I tell him.
“But it works.” He disappears back into the kitchenette. I hear the microwave running.
He returns with a bowl of soup on a tray.
He’s heated soup for you.
The billionaire heated soup for you like you’re a child who can’t operate appliances.
Shut up and let him.
He sets the bowl on my lap. “Eat.”
“Bossy much?” I try to quip, but it comes out a squeak.
“Only when necessary.” He sits in the armchair across from the bed and fixes those dark eyes on me. “Eat, Amara.”
I take a spoonful. It’s chicken soup with vegetables.
Tastes like actual heaven right about now.
I take another spoonful.
“More,” he says when I pause.
I glare at him. “I am eating.”
“Faster,” he insists.
I let my scowl deepen. “Are you seriously micromanaging my soup consumption?”
“You skipped breakfast and you’re running a fever,” he states. “So yes, I’m micromanaging your soup consumption.”
I eat three more spoonfuls just to prove I can, then set the bowl aside because my stomach is already staging a protest. “I’m done.”
He leans forward angrily. “I said more.”
“And I said I’m done.” I lie back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted again. “You can leave now. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He stands, moves to the bed, and sits on the edge. His hand comes to my forehead, his palm feeling so cool against my burning skin.
And electric.
My breath catches.
Stop it.
You’re sick!
And look like garbage.
This is a caretaking situation, not a romance in any way, shape or form!
“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my temple. “When did the fever start?”
Why is his thumb sending these strange shivers down my spine?
“Amara?” he asks.
I blink. “What?”
“When did the fever start?” he repeats.